The Death Wish Game

by Jonathan Chateau

Just as an arrow pierces her seat. We both watch as it flops up and down like a diving board, then we exchange glances.

  “Guess you must have an angel watching over you,” I say.

  She looks at the arrow again, then back at me. As she wipes the tears from her face and the snot from her nose, she says, “And maybe you’re him.”

  Chapter 4—What’s the Plan?

  Bear and Chase free the teenager with the bowl cut and pull him down to the floor. Guess the kid was alive after all. But for someone who just got their ass saved, he doesn’t appear very grateful. There’s a scowl on his face as though we killed his dog or something.

  “You all right?” I ask the kid.

  He glances down at his shirt. It’s a My Chemical Romance tour shirt. Circa 2007. It’s in perfect condition, save for the sweat circles under his arms. Other than that, no wounds. He looks back at me, glaring, almost disappointed to be alive. “Yeppers.” Now I see what Jim saw. Mascara. It’s running down his face as if he’s either been crying, sweating, or both.

  “What’s your name?” I ask as I feel something stir inside me. A funky vibe. A tingling of my “spider-sense.” Aside from everything else going on, there’s already something about this kid I don’t like. “Well?”

  “Introductions? In the middle of a massacre?” The kid laughs to himself in a self-amused sort of way. “Are you retarded or something?”

  “If we’re going to escape this nightmare,” I say, “we’re all going to get acquainted pretty quick.”

  The kid huffs. “I don’t want to know you people—”

  Bear’s hand shoots across the aisle. He grasps the kid’s nose and shoves a thumb up into his nostril.

  “Ahhhhhhh!” The kid tries to pull away, but Bear’s massive hand decides otherwise. “You’re hurting me, you chubby hipster!”

  “Rodney asked your name,” Bear says.

  The kid lets out a muffled whimper in response.

  An arrow sails right above our head. Everyone watches it fly over us as if we’re at some kind of morbid airshow.

  Everyone but the three of us.

  Our gazes never leave this little punk.

  “It only takes nine pounds of pressure to break a nose,” Bear says as he leans forward.

  Chase glares at Bear with an expression that says, What are you doing? He’s a kid!

  “Name’s Damien, all right!” the kid squeals, his voice nasal. “Now let go!”

  “Damien?” Bear raises an eyebrow. “Damien?”

  “Yes, fat boy! My name is Damien.”

  Bear chuckles. “As in Damien . . . the kid from The Omen?”

  “I call bullshit,” I say. “Bet his real name is Carter or Tanner or something more boring like that.”

  “Fuck both of you.” Damien swats Bear’s hand away. Actually, I think it’s more that Bear lets him knock it away. “Maybe I am the omen!”

  “Calm down, omen-boy,” I say. “As long as you can follow directions, we’ll all get along.”

  Rubbing his nose, Damien seethes. “O.K.”

  Keeping ourselves close to the ground and behind the temporary cover of the chairs, we peek out into the aisles. One or two people remain, wrestling in vain, trying desperately to free themselves. Up on the left, a guy with a ball cap. On the right, a woman with pink-and-blue hair.

  “Now . . . Damien,” I say, “wait here until I give you the signal it’s safe to move.” To Bear, “You and Chase free up the guy on the left.” I look back over my shoulder at Liza. “You can wait here or help me free the woman.”

  She shakes her head. “Oh no-no-no. I’ll wait right here. Sorry.”

  “OK—”

  There’s a whistling sound followed by a thump as an arrow punches through the seat in front of us, the arrowhead stopping just short of my nose. I jump. Liza jumps. Everyone jumps. How these invisible archers managed a shot like that is beyond me, but then again, I’m no marksman myself.

  Liza grabs my shoulder, squeezes it so hard I wince. “Never mind. I’m following you.”

  I nod at her, then to Bear. “Let’s go!”

  Bear makes his way up front with Chase reluctantly close behind. The two of them slip into the ball-cap guy’s aisle and get to work releasing him.

  I glance back at Liza. “Keep your head down.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice!” she replies.

  We move into the aisle, creeping along as if inside a dark tunnel. Heads low, the occasional sound of an arrow flying above our head. Pebbles of tempered glass litter the floor. I’m careful where I place my hands and knees to avoid cutting myself. Pangs of fear nip at my insides, sending sharp bursts of heat and adrenaline-fueled quakes through my body. The bus feels as though it’s a mile long, but it’s not.

  It’s just the panic distorting everything around me.

  We get to the pink-and-blue-haired woman’s aisle. She glances down at us and repeatedly nods to the seat next to her where two arrows landed just inches from her head. I yank the tape off her face, she gasps and for a split-second, and I’m caught off guard.

  She’s beautiful—

  “Hurry up!” she barks.

  I make quick work of her restraints, cutting with a now very, very dull knife. Within moments, though, she’s free. She slides down onto the floor next to us, and a waft of her perfume and hairspray gives my nose a welcome break from the stench of fear and piss.

  “Thanks,” she says breathlessly. “Pretty sure I was next.”

  Two arrows zoom above our heads and punch through her seat.

  The three of us exchange looks.

  “I think we’re all next,” Liza says, her voice trembling.

  “Screw that,” I say. “We’re getting out of here.” I poke my head out into the aisle and Bear does as well. He gives me another thumbs-up. I then call out, “Damien!”

  Nothing.

  No sign of him.

  “DAMIEN!”

  Damien finally leans out into the aisle, his shaggy, jet-black hair spilling over his eyes. “What?”

  “Get your ass up here!”

  “Is that the”—Damien makes quotes with his fingers—“sign?”

  “OK, smart-ass. Stay and die.”

  “Whatever.” Damien worms his way up toward us. He slips into the aisle across from us, a frown firmly planted on his eighteen-year-old face.

  I’m just guessing his age, but he’s at the ripe youthful age of rebellion and suburban anger-for-no-reason. The last thing I’m going to do is feed into his bad attitude when we’ve got bigger issues.

  “So . . . what’s the plan, boss?” Bear asks me.

  I suddenly freeze. “The plan?”

  I feel that unwelcome hand of dread reach up from the pit of my stomach, clutch my vocal chords, and steal my breath. I choke.

  What is the plan?

  Bear leans close. My fear is reflected in his eyes as he asks once again, “Yeah. What do we do now?”

  Good question.

  Chapter 5—It’s Your Funeral

  “Hold that thought,” I tell Bear as I snap out of my anxious stupor. I’m amazed that in a matter of mere minutes these people have adopted me as their leader. I have no clue how we’re going to get out of this.

  Whatever this is.

  Guess I’m going to have to suck it up and roll with the adage: Fake it ’til you make it.

  Or more simply: Keep moving, or die panicking.

  I climb over Liza, peeking just high enough to look out the window. I do this assuming our invisible assassins are not flying above us or perched atop some trees close by. And rather than being hit by arrows, the first thing to hit me is the faint smell of decay; of something rotting in the distance. The stench is so strong I have to fight the urge to turn away. But I resist. The last thing I want to do is turn my head or close my eyes and give our assailants the chance to off me.

  Centered in the sky hangs a full moon, fat, and milky-white. Surrounding it, an expanse of stars sparkle like a million pieces of
broken glass. I’ve never gazed up at such a perfect display of the cosmos. It’s brighter than I ever would have pictured. The crisp radiance of these celestial bodies, unobscured by the haze of smog or man-made light. The type of night sky that a stargazer would appreciate. It’s also the kind of starlight you get when you’re many miles away from the nearest major city.

  I then catch sight of something else—a bizarre red mist that carpets the ground. It’s as if a fog machine were pumping out exhaust from Hell. Thanks to the unusual light source, I make out that we’re in the middle of a field full of gnarly weeds and tall grass. Roughly a football field away, a bank of trees encircles us, also backlit by the same soft, red lighting illuminating the fog.

  So where the heck is that light coming from?

  A gray shadow darts through the landscape then dives into the grass. Followed by another, emerging from the wall of trees to the right. It too vanishes into the sea of weeds and twisted shrubbery.

  “Great,” I say under my breath.

  “What?” Liza asks, her words coming out quick. “What-is-it? What? Tell us!”

  I duck back down, flip around to face her and the rest of the group. All eyes on me. All eyes expecting bad news.

  “Well, we’re definitely not alone,” I say.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Damien snaps.

  I ignore him. “And there’s more than one of them—whoever they are.”

  “More than one of who?” Chase’s voice cracks like a thirteen-year-old going through puberty. “Who the fuck is out there? And what do they want—?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Bear says, his tone unwavering, almost calm. “Clearly they just want us dead.” I’m sort of jealous of his cool demeanor. Maybe he should lead the group.

  “Oh well, that’s just perfect.” Chase turns to me. “So what do we do?”

  He’s asking me.

  Maybe me giving up the lead isn’t such a bright idea?

  Maybe they’re looking up to me since I freed them?

  Maybe—

  “Well?” Chase asks, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “What do we do?”

  I shake off the spiraling doubt. Lock eyes with Chase. “Well, we can’t stay here.”

  “Why not?” The dude with the ball cap finally speaks up. Everyone turns to him. He raises his hand tepidly as he says, “I’m . . . Aaron by the way.”

  Damien rolls his eyes.

  “And thanks…” Aaron says as he clears his throat, “for saving me.”

  Bear nods.

  “We can’t stay here because whoever is out there is on the move,” I say. “Looks like they’re headed toward us. Clearly, the bus isn’t safe.”

  “Any of you geniuses think about just driving us off into the sunset?” Damien asks. “Maybe the keys are up front.”

  The woman with the pink-and-blue hair crawls toward the front of the bus and then crawls back. “My first thought, too,” she says. “But they tore the crap out of the steering column.” She shrugs. “And then they took the steering wheel.”

  “Well, that’s just great!” Chase shouts. “That’s just . . . fucking . . . great—”

  “Calm down, son.” Bear places one of his massive lumberjack hands on Chase’s shoulder and squeezes so hard Chase cowers, flinching in pain. “Things could be worse.”

  “Oh really?” Chase’s tone again climbs an octave as he asks, “Like how?”

  “I dunno. Ask him.” Bear nods toward one of the passengers, one whose throat is skewed by an arrow.

  Chase shakes off Bear’s grip, pouting.

  “All right, then,” Aaron says to me. “So what do you propose we do?”

  “Just a guess,” I say, “but looks like we’ve got about a hundred yards of open field between us and a dense bank of trees off to our left. I say we make a run for them.”

  Damien scoffs. Shakes his head as if what I said was funny.

  I glare at him. “Better than just sitting here waiting for Lord knows what.”

  “I think I’d rather wait here,” Aaron says.

  The lights in the cabin go out.

  Liza whimpers.

  A squeal escapes Chase.

  “There goes the battery,” the woman with the pink-and-blue hair says as she looks up at the ceiling.

  “Still want to stay here?” Bear asks Aaron.

  “Actually, yeah, I kind of do.”

  As my eyes adjust to the darkness, which is somewhat illuminated by the red glow outside, I notice everyone is staring at Aaron as if he just said something insane.

  “Look, you’re suggesting that we run out there. Expose ourselves to our killers.” Aaron takes off his ball cap and uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I’d rather hunker down here. Wait until first light. Then make a move.”

  “And what if whatever’s out there doesn’t want to wait until first light?” I ask. “What if whatever’s out there wants to kill you first, and then watch the sun rise?”

  Aaron firmly plants his ball cap back on his head. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Fine.” I lean into the aisle so I can see everyone’s faces a little more clearly. “Anyone else wants to stay?”

  “I sorta do,” Liza says, sniffling as she speaks. “I’m not much of a runner.”

  “Neither am I. I’m a smoker. I’m sure I’ve got the lungs of a coal miner,” Bear says. “But I’m not going to sit and wait for anyone to make a shish kebab outta me.”

  “I think they’re insane for going,” Aaron tells Liza. “I say stay with me if you want to live through this.”

  Liza exchanges glances between Aaron and me.

  After a few beats, she says, “I’m staying,” a sense of impending breakdown in her voice.

  My instincts scream to me that it’s a death sentence for the two of them.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  She nods her head, but even under the dim light from the red haze spilling in from outside, I catch a hint of uncertainty in her eyes.

  There’s a scream from outside. We all jump.

  The scream is ugly.

  Unearthly.

  It sounds human . . . but not.

  It’s more of a shriek. A scream from the top of something’s lungs.

  Or maybe even someone’s.

  “Jesus, what was that?” Chase’s gaze shifts between all of us, searching for answers as if we know any better ourselves.

  It happens again.

  Another scream. This one is a little deeper. And more like a yodel.

  No. Not a yodel.

  A war cry.

  It’s a freaking war cry!

  This is the stuff of movies. Ones featuring armies of natives, chanting and bellowing in tongues never heard before by modern man.

  Only this is no movie.

  This time something big sails into the cabin, embedding itself into the back wall of the bus.

  We all turn our heads to see a spear—a goddamn spear—jutting out from the back wall.

  “Alrighty! That’s our cue,” I say. “Who’s coming with me?”

  “OK, seriously,” Chase says, “maybe Aaron is right about staying, man. I mean, whatever the hell’s out there is taunting us. Maybe they want us to come outside.”

  He could be right.

  Actually, he probably is right.

  But the alternative is to sit here and wait for them to climb onboard and kill us where we crouch.

  “I’m willing to take that chance,” I say as I push past everyone and crawl toward the back of the bus. I hop up to my feet and pull as hard as I can, yanking the spear free from the wall. I drop to the floor just as an arrow cruises above my head, landing right where I was seconds before.

  Yep.

  They’re watching us all right.

  And so is everyone on this bus. Watching me with awe as I crawl back toward them.

  Not long before this nightmare, I almost put a bullet in my brain. Of my own free will. If I’m at the point of considering killing myself, I’d s
ay that makes me liberated enough to take some chances. Maybe do something worthy with my life instead of sulking, or taking selfish action against myself.

  I feel like such a faker right now. A coward. How could these people, these strangers, be putting their faith in a man who nearly buried a bullet in the back of his skull?

  Fake it ’til you make it, Rodney.

  Keep moving or die panicking.

  Those two thoughts send a sudden surge of confidence through me. What have I got to lose now? I’ve already lost everything that ever mattered to me. If this is my new rock bottom, screw dying on someone—or something—else’s terms!

  I slide up next to the group and lift the end of the spear to their faces. Their attention on the blade tip and then me.

  “I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and let these pricks cherry-pick us. Nor am I gonna play their little game. Nor, for that matter, Jim Grimm’s game. I’d rather go out there and die trying.” I survey everyone’s eyes. The tinge of red light reflecting on them. I need to know who is with me. “Now . . . if any of you want to join me, speak up, raise a hand right now. Otherwise, this is where we part ways.”

  A moment of shared silence.

  A moment of deep, internal deliberation.

  Bear, Chase, and the woman with the pink-and-blue hair slowly raise their hands.

  “I’m still staying,” Aaron says flatly, seemingly unconvinced by any of the obvious reasons—in my humble opinion—to get the heck off the bus.

  Liza avoids my gaze, tears brimming and sliding down her cheeks. “Sorry,” she says as she shrinks away. “I ain’t cut out for all that running around. I’ll wait it out here. The Lord’s got my back.”

  “Well maybe the Lord sent me!” I shout, not even sure of what I’m saying.

  Liza doesn’t flinch.

  Dammit! It’s a death sentence. It sucks, but I can’t force her to go. Then again, I can’t guarantee everyone’s safety once we are outside, either. Still, it’s a risk I’m 100 percent willing to take.

  I look to Damien.

  “I don’t know yet, man,” he says with a yawn.

  I glare at the little punk, recalling kids like him back in high school. They were the bullies. They were the against-the-grain, anti-culture rebels without a clue. And this kid definitely has no clue. Part of that teenage immortality belief that we’ve all shared at some point in our youth. A belief that quickly evaporates when death bitch-slaps you in the face. When you lose someone close to you.